She Raises Me

A prose poem that I wrote for class:

Flirting with thirty from down the hall, barely grasping the scheme of it all, I pull my breaker tighter though the weather is nicer as she tugs on the strap of my baggage, slowing my pace. In a line, with no front and no end but I’m next, in the midst of a contest with no rest… I’ll sprint ’till my shins split and she knows this, believes this even as the tears streak. I’m crushed and ground, salt of the earth, weak. And she still sees the beauty in the beat and swollen me. Is certain that this hurt is only temporary… she tempers my tantrums on the contrary. One of the most beloved set loose from a luminous galaxy to find… me and to wind… me while the rest of this test worries into my vitality. I’m taller. But she’s bigger. I now read well. But she is the cover, my daughter, six and none the wiser that she’s wiser, a better mother to the child in me.

– B. Brown

(art courtesy of Pinterest)

Journal: This Morning

This morning, she asks me,

Is she in heaven

with Babydoll?


Probably not together,

I tell her,

your grandmother

didn’t like snakes.







I love her, Mommy.

Yes, honey, I know.


She loves you too.


– B. Brown


Just leave it to our children to remind us how special each day is.


(art by Carl Wilhelm de Hamilton)





it’s in her brown eyes
and shy grin
the way she laughs
when she shouts,
she wins me

when she needs me
honestly, loves
and cares constantly
gaze always on me
pondering possibly
fun and snickers with me

she searches for me
when she can’t feel me
calls for me
when I’m about to
recede, block out
turn on myself
and smother
with self-doubt

and unworthiness
and guilt, the fear
and scrutiny dealt
the purpose, will
and uncertainty felt

melts when she comes
for my love and warmth,
elusive until she wraps me
in her forgiving arms

accepting and adoring
me either way
however way
she knows
I needed it most

– B. Brown

(art by Ina Shtukar)